


to each expanding dawn

by vigilantejam



Series: exercise our sum control [2]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs, Enthusiastic Consent, Exhibitionism, Face Slapping, Kissing, M/M, Masochism, Rough Sex, Sadism, they're learning!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:35:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29586630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vigilantejam/pseuds/vigilantejam
Summary: “You’re not curious aboutanything?You called me all day every day for three days to get me here, but I’m not absolutely fascinating to you?”“I have no desire for you to know my business, Mr Des Voeux, so I shall not trouble myself with yours.”
Relationships: Charles Frederick Des Voeux/Stephen S. Stanley
Series: exercise our sum control [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2046140
Comments: 11
Kudos: 16





	to each expanding dawn

The building is one of four in a short terrace of turn-of-the-century brickwork. The door is up a set of steep stone steps with a wrought iron banister. Below are a couple of windows, covered from the inside, and a cellar trap. Ivy and strings of lights loop around the cobbled courtyard. It is all contained within a high thick sandstone wall speckled with moss and algae, coloured with Industrial Age soot, and there is nothing to suggest what this place might be except a small brass plaque at the portico gate that reads ‘The Vaults’.

Chas supposes he’s meant to be intimidated. Instead he is bored. The elderly desk clerk inside had peered at him through bottle-thick glasses that bugged out his eyes, and refused entry without a member to sign him in. Chas had enquired about becoming a member and was told he needed a current member’s signature to do so. He had bitten back a comment about how they could suck his member and explained through gritted teeth that he would wait for his _acquaintance_ outside. That had been over thirty seconds ago and Chas’ thoughts now turn to how to break into the basement.

He’s looking for something to lever up the cellar door when the sound of approaching footsteps whips him around to the courtyard entrance.

Dr Stephen Stanley has, beyond expectations, both arranged and turned up for this- Chas stops short on the word _date._ That’s not it.

“You’re late,” he snipes.

“I’m not.”

Chas pulls his phone from his pocket just in time to see the clock flick over from 21:29 to 21:30. Unbelievable.

Stanley approaches and holds out a hand, just short of Chas’ reach.

“It’s good to see you again,” he says, and Chas thinks he should tell his face.

Chas hesitates in his step forward, but then he closes his hand around Stanley’s, and waits for the too-firm contact. The grip that had burrowed into his brain and festered there until he had sat at his computer with one hand shoved down the front of his pants, and the other alternately scrolling through search engine results and holding a piece of cold toast that got crumbs in his keyboard. The grip that had tightened around his neck and made him feel wretched and free.

It’s a normal handshake.

They make their way up the steps and inside, where Stanley greets the desk clerk, receives a polite nod in return, and signs them in without having to produce proof of membership. Chas declines the obsequiously delivered offer to join up, and with an acerbic grin he cups a hand over his trousers and adjusts his dick at his nemesis while Stanley’s back is turned.

He follows Stanley down a short corridor where there is one door marked ‘Billiards’, because of course there is, and another ‘Smoking Lounge’. Both are heavy dark wood. Chas rolls his eyes.

“Are we to retire to the drawing room?” he asks a second before he sees ‘Drawing Room’ hand-painted in neat gold letters on the set of double doors Stanley is leading him towards. “Fucking hell.”

The interior is exactly as Chas might have guessed; large and open, with wood panelling, low-slung oak tables, Chesterfields in forest green and oxblood, and an insane fireplace. A pair of hanging chandeliers give off a tasteful glow, bright enough to read _The Telegraph_ by, without being intrusive. The only thing missing is oil portraits of thousand-year-old white men, although Chas imagines the bucolic landscapes that cover half the walls come from their estates. Stanley approaches the bar just inside the door. There are only two draught pumps, but an incredible selection of spirits lines the mirrored wall beneath a large factory window.

“What is this place?” Chas says under his breath, annoyed he was somehow not aware of its existence. He would have to ask Dundy. Fucker was probably already a member.

The bartender, a man with an enormous but well-tended red beard and a leather apron, slides over a laminated drinks menu that is several pages long. The first eight are all whisky.

“Do you like whisky?” Stanley asks, without turning to look at him.

“Not as much as this menu thinks I should,” Chas says, and gets nothing when he tries his best smile. “You might have to give me a recommendation, I don’t know much about it.”

“What would you prefer?” Stanley blinks down his nose.

Chas leafs past the pages of Scotch and Irish malts and lands on the gin.

“Lichfield’s, thank you,” he addresses the bartender instead.

“Ice and tonic, sir?”

“On the side, please,” Chas says sweetly, to somehow even less response.

Stanley orders a fucking Icelandic vodka and Chas almost explodes laughing. He tries throwing an apologetic look at the bartender, whose impassive face only keeps him giggling. 

“ _You_ don’t even like whisky,” he crows and Stanley raises an eyebrow at him, the slightest hint of amusement beginning to thaw the frost. “Some choice of venue.”

Their drinks are served in thick-bottomed cut glass, and there is no request for payment, no card machine or cash register visible. Chas imagines a heavy ledger, kept out of sight, dutifully filled in with neat copperplate at an opportune and discrete moment, to be charged to the member’s monthly sub or whatever.

A few tables are already occupied, some in the middle of the room and others tucked away in shadowed alcoves. The one Stanley leads him to is by the wall, with one wingback chair and a studded two-seater sofa angled slightly to look out at the room. Stanley takes the chair, and Chas places his gin on the corner of the table between them and folds himself onto the Chesterfield. He tucks one leg up under himself and his shoe squeaks across the cushions. Stanley narrows his eyes and takes a long sip of his drink as Chas leans over the leather arm towards him.

“Well this is very civilised,” Chas says.

“Not your usual speed, I take it,” Stanley enquires, tapping blunt fingernails on the side of his glass.

Chas cocks his head to the side and lets his eyes track round the room again. The exclusivity of this place, and Stanley’s familiarity with it do as much to signal his territory as pissing in every corner would. This is Stanley’s turf, his club. Everything is brown and smells of decades of vetiver cologne and barrel-aged whatever and Stanley’s sitting here drinking his clear spirits. Something doesn’t quite fit, and Chas can either call him out on his posturing, or pretend to be impressed. As if any one of these knock-off Constables is worth as much as his shoes.

“I could get used to it,” he smiles.

He pours a little of the iced tonic into his gin and gives it a cursory swirl about the glass. The quinine takes the edge off the alcohol and Chas is left with the taste of sharp and sour green apple skins and bitter angelica. Whatever else is lousy about this place, they can serve a drink.

“So,” Stanley says, pausing while he watches Chas put his glass down. “Since I apparently neglected to ask last time. What do you want?”

“No, not 'apparently',” Chas says, and sits forward on the sofa. “You didn’t ask and you didn’t care.”

“I was having a bad day.”

“That’s not an apology.”

“And I didn't appreciate your little gift or the manner in which it was delivered,” Stanley frowns and his lips barely move as he speaks.

“Also not an apology.”

“Do you have my home address?”

“No.”

“Do not contact me at my home or my office again.”

“Don’t _make_ me,” Chas counters and watches Stanley’s eyes flash for an instant. His shoulders tense and he looks to the exit and back in a blink.

“What do you _want?”_ Stanley asks again with a sigh.

Chas leans back until his shoulders hit the leather. “Whatever happened to first date small talk?”

“I’d rather not.”

“You’re not curious about anything? Called me all day every day for three days to get me here, but I’m not absolutely fascinating to you?” he winks.

“I have no desire for you to know my business, Mr Des Voeux, so I shall not trouble myself with yours.”

It should be ridiculous, a parody of pomposity, but it’s drawled with such disdain and antipathy Chas’ blood heats. Still he scoffs and pushes further.

“Kids? Hobbies?”

“You already know I’m married,” Stanley says. It’s not an answer to either question.

“I do.”

“And I won’t leave her for you,” Stanley continues and hits the _you_ slightly harder than Chas would like.

“I won’t ask you to.”

“She’s not your concern.”

“Oh, believe me, she really isn’t.” Chas raises his eyebrows, and when Stanley has nothing to add he continues. “Can I ask something? About the whole no home no work thing. I understand keeping secrets from your wife and gossipy receptionists or whatever, but it might save some time to tell you I'm not very good at all that clandestine business. I'm not interested in hiding or sneaking around. So if that's a deal-breaker-”

“She knows,” Stanley interrupts. “I don't keep secrets from her and she knows. But the terms are it's separate.”

There’s a pause while he finishes his drink and places the empty glass on the table and sits back in his chair. “What are _your_ terms?”

Chas smirks from where he sits, slouched down in the sofa, his legs obscenely spread and the fabric of his trousers pulled tight around his crotch and thighs. His elbow points out over the armrest and he bites the side of his finger.

“No terms.”

He raises his foot just a little, and stretches to run the toe of his shoe up the back of Stanley’s calf. Stanley only watches him, eyes hooded and expression blank, until he puts his foot back on the floor again. Stanley blinks once, slowly, with a studied stillness Chas could never hope to achieve, and he feels little sparks take root in his extremities and run with pins and needles up his limbs, into goosebumps on the back of his neck. He’s half a thought away from salivating and it’s ridiculous.

Stanley rises so suddenly out of his chair that Chas starts. The movement is sharp and agile and he thinks for a moment Stanley’s going to hit him, but the man just stands towering over him, quite still but for a twitch in his hand, a crook of two fingers, beckoning Chas to stand too.

He lingers for a moment to see if Stanley will reach down and grab him if he doesn’t obey, but Stanley waits longer, silently. Chas gets up as gracefully as he can, which is not very given the low seat and the growing weight in his trousers. And it’s ridiculous that _that’s_ happening more or less on fucking command too. As soon as he is upright Stanley is looking him over with dead and shark-like eyes which stop when they reach Chas’ mouth. There’s the smallest jerk of his head, a quick blink, which Chas chooses to interpret as _come here_ and he takes one step closer. Stanley’s lips part and the tip of his tongue slips over them as he tilts his head down. Chas has to stretch up to meet him, and with a faint hum of approval that sends shivers up his spine Stanley is kissing him. It’s surprisingly soft, and somehow both cautious and deliberate. Chas kisses back just as carefully, suddenly worried another attempt to push his luck will send Stanley bolting for the door. The unexpected _chasteness_ of it all almost makes him laugh, but instead he just smiles into it and feels Stanley ease back. Chas blinks his eyes open for a second and sees Stanley’s are still closed. It’s killing him to stay still, the tension building in him, his lips still brushing Stanley’s with the lightest touch. Then Stanley comes to some sort of conclusion and he has Chas by the waist and one hand on the back of his neck and _there it is._ Chas feels himself floundering as Stanley draws him close and kisses the absolute fuck out of him, in the middle of this public room in a not so public club. They break apart and for a second all there is is the breath between them and Stanley’s lips pressed together in a fine line of a smile.

“There are other rooms here,” he says quietly.

“I bet there are,” Chas breathes in reply, blood thumping in his ears. “With more peerages per square foot than Whitehall.”

In the corners of his vision Chas sees a couple of faces from the other tables turn away quickly. He can’t help but smirk.

“Would you like to go to one?” Stanley asks.

“I would like to do whatever you want, now that we’ve actually agreed to that.”

Stanley’s hand has not left the back of his neck and his fingers slide up through Chas’ hair. Of course. The things Stanley had allowed himself that first time, the things _Chas_ had allowed him, and what he had held back are a tangle of intimate contradictions, and Chas can feel now how much he’s wanted to do _this_ since they met. 

“I want to hurt you.”

“Please,” Chas says and his eyes fall closed.

Stanley shifts forward and his thigh just catches where Chas is getting hard.

“Fuck,” Chas hisses. _“Please.”_

“Hmm,” Stanley hums and tugs Chas’ hair back to kiss him again. It’s more, more urgent and more open and Stanley’s tongue is pushing at Chas’ lips. Chas opens for him with a soft noise, and his hands fist into Stanley’s shirt. When Stanley pulls away his pupils are wide and his mouth pink, and Chas has to hold him tighter to stop from dropping to his knees right there.

“Come on.”

Stanley turns on his heel and strides towards a door at the back of the room, half hidden amongst the panelling, and Chas falls over his feet to follow. They come to a twisting back staircase that leads both up and down, and Stanley makes no hesitation in heading down. The stairs curl round and if Chas has got this right the open room they head into is directly below the drawing room they just left. It is the same size inside, though with a lower ceiling and smaller windows with thick curtains pulled over them. There is no bar, but the same arrangements of chairs and tables. There are few people, all men, with ties looser, eyes heavier, draped and pressed against each other on the furniture. Chas sweeps his eyes over everything, cataloguing and adjusting, and wondering when Stanley is going to stop walking. They leave the lounge and in the next small hallway there are four more doors. Three are open.

“Wait there,” Stanley says shortly.

Chas stands, trying not to fidget with the energy that vibrates through him. Stanley looks into the first open room and then beckons. His hand rests on the door handle and he asks, “Open or closed?”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Yes, you do.”

Stanley chose this place, arrived exactly on time, kissed him maybe better than he’s ever been kissed, and now he’s asking. Cautious and deliberate. Stanley’s trying to work him out too. Chas has never been very good at subtext.

“Open.”

Stanley grabs him rough by the shirt collar and hauls him into the room. He’s scraping an evening-shadow cheek against Chas’ temple, and his large hand is already inside Chas’ trousers, palming rough against his twitching aching prick.

“Fuck yes,” Chas hisses.

Stanley squeezes him over his underwear once, twice, _hard,_ and lets him go. He shoves at Chas’ shoulders and Chas stumbles away. He’s about to curse and lunge forward again but Stanley has straightened and squared himself and _glares_ and it stops Chas dead. He lets his hands fall to his sides and stands there with his chest heaving, his trousers moments from sliding off his hips, and waits.

Stanley watches him, holds him with his eyes until Chas is completely still. His eyes flick once to the open door over Chas’ shoulder and then once down to the tapestry rug that covers half the floor.

“Shirt,” he says, clipped and low and Chas throws off his jacket and hurries with his shirt buttons, pulling the last few free without caring if they rip or fire off anywhere. There’s a bed in the room, although Stanley hasn’t acknowledged it at all, and Chas tosses his clothes in that direction, not looking to see where they land.

Stanley’s eyes run over Chas’ chest and he can feel himself heating up under the scrutiny.

“Kneel.”

Chas drops to the rug without thinking about it. He has a sense of losing himself, and the choice between leaving now or giving himself over to it is no choice at all. He watches Stanley’s fingers start to undo his belt, his flat knuckles nicked with scars and dusted with orange freckles a tantilising breath away. The pin folds back and the leather slides through the buckle, and with a long slow drag Stanley pulls it free. He pops the button of his trousers with one hand while the belt hangs loose by his side in the other. Chas’ mind races with where that belt is going to end up. Snapping hard across his back or binding tight around his wrists. His neck. _Christ._ Stanley loops it around his knuckles and nods when he meets Chas’ eyes.

Chas shuffles forwards on his knees, and opens Stanley’s fly. He spreads his trousers back and gets a hand inside. Stanley’s halfway there and Chas reckons he can make short work of the rest, though he has an idea that Stanley appreciates patience. He slides his palm forward to cup Stanley’s balls over his boxers, puts just a little pressure on the fingertips behind them and feels gratified by the slight hitch of breath from above. He stays there for a moment, massaging gently until he rakes his hand away without being too kind about it and tugs Stanley’s boxers and trousers down over his hips to his knees. He runs his hands back up Stanley’s thighs, pale, lean and strong, and scattered with light hairs. As his hands move higher he’s still being watched, and he puts on a bit of a show of licking his lips as he closes his fingers around the base of Stanley’s cock. Stanley’s eyes flicker shut for a second and he sighs and when he looks down at Chas again his eyes are darker. Chas clutches the back of Stanley’s leg and pulls him a little closer, a concession, a small movement on his terms.

He takes Stanley’s cock in his mouth as smooth and as whole as he can, not stopping the slow slide until he feels the head against his throat. He hollows his cheeks and pulls back, glides all the way back in the same motion and lets his lips smack. He repeats the movement, and holds Stanley’s cock against his throat for as long as he can, feels it growing thicker against his tongue, and slides off. He licks his palm and tugs Stanley with a few rolls of his wrists and then his mouth again, bobbing his head before going deep, rolling his tongue and pulling away with a gasp.

He looks up from Stanley’s cock sliding through his fist, and holds Stanley’s eyes as he licks over his head and shaft. Stanley’s hand, the one not _still holding his belt,_ curls over the back of Chas’ head. The hair at his crown is just long enough to get a really good grip, and Chas cannot claim that’s by accident. Stanley’s fingers tighten and Chas moans, leans into the touch and goes pliant in his hand. He moves back and forward around Stanley’s cock, holding his tongue rigid against the underside and making small noises with each hot hard slide. The rhythm is steady and Chas lowers his hands, relaxes his jaw more and Stanley takes over, directing Chas’ head by his hair. Chas keeps his eyes open and his face up as Stanley pushes his hips forward into him again and again. His throat contracts then eases with each thrust and saliva pools under his tongue and leaks from the corners of his mouth. An ache is starting to build in his jaw and it’s heavy and thrilling. He breathes hard through his nose and closes his lips, sucking firm for a moment and then leaning back. He waits to see if Stanley will let him go or keep using him. Both answers are fire in his chest.

Stanley’s fingers dig into the back of his skull and they're just staring, breathing heavy, _glaring_ at each other until Chas blinks Stanley pulls him close again. His nose is buried in the crease of Stanley’s hip and he’s held tight with no room for movement and Stanley’s too big for this to be comfortable but Chas doesn’t care about comfortable. Not now. Not while choking feels so good. He’s suddenly released and shoved away and Chas sits back on his heels, wide-eyed and panting. Stanley takes his own cock in his hand and keeps going, his face flushed and his eyes dark and serious. Chas’ mouth has fallen open and he can feel the spit shine on his lips and chin, he knows what he must look like with his hair pulled and his chest hot. He licks his lips again and blinks up at Stanley, letting his eyelashes do the work.

“Slut,” Stanley growls and Chas pushes the heel of his palm down against the growing strain of his dick and the twitch of his hips. “Shameless little tart.”

Stanley grabs Chas by the hair again and fucks his mouth with abandon. It hurts and chokes and Chas tries to hold his own weight but has to grab on to Stanley’s thighs, leaving pink circle fingerprints on the skin. He groans as loud as he can around the mouthful of cock and holds tighter. His jaw hurts properly now, his throat will be fucked ragged, his scalp burns where Stanley has a hold on it, and pin pricks are starting in his eyes where the tears are forming. He gets a hand into the front of his open trousers and squeezes, rutting against his own palm with what little movement he has.

“Don’t touch yourself while I’m fucking you,” Stanley snaps. “Hands behind your back.”

Chas complies and arches and stretches his spine. He holds his shoulders as far back as he can manage and turns his eyes up to Stanley. It hurts to hold and as Stanley thrusts into his mouth he gags a little each time, wet horrible noises falling from him that only spur Stanley on. He buries himself deep and holds Chas there again. Chas’ whole body is burning and the edges of his vision start to swim. Then he’s released and Stanley’s hand is on his jaw, his strong fingers holding him firm and waiting for him to return.

“Would you swallow for me?” Chas hears Stanley’s voice in a low thrum as he blinks away tears.

He nods as much as he can and opens for Stanley’s cock again. He brings his hands up to work the base and flicks his tongue short and fast around the head.

“Yes, yes,” Stanley gasps between breaths and it’s the most undone Chas has heard him.

In his smug triumph Chas takes him down whole. Stanley’s cock hits the back of his throat as his hands tighten in his hair and he comes with a growling moan down Chas’ throat. Chas swallows and swallows each pulse and eases off gradually, sliding the head over his tongue. He strokes the last of Stanley’s come out of him and lets it paint his lips, kisses it back along his shaft and licks it away. Stanley holds him there for a little while longer, fingers tangled in Chas’ hair until his breathing settles, then he steps away.

Chas puts his hands back behind his back, stays kneeling on the rug with his mouth stretched and sore and his legs going dead while Stanley ignores him and tidies himself up. He watches as Stanley straightens his trousers and tucks in his shirt and threads his belt back into place. _Damn._

When Stanley turns back to him he looks more relaxed, though no less stern. He’s flexing his hands by his sides, his long fingers stretching and spreading and then curling into fists. His veins pop into relief and wind up towards his cuffs. Chas makes an involuntary noise. He wants those hands. He wants them on him and he doesn’t care how.

Stanley snorts derisively. He puts the back of his hand to Chas’ cheek, brushes his knuckles over his skin. Chas can feel the heat and strength of him and just about resists leaning into the touch. The effort must show on his face as Stanley huffs another dry laugh.

“You want it so much.”

He taps the side of Chas’ face twice with flat fingernails.

“Please,” Chas nods.

Stanley draws his hand back further.

“You’ll tell me when to stop.”

It isn’t a question. Chas nods again and doesn’t give voice to the screaming thought, _But will you listen?_

The first slap is a swift backhand and for all that it was offered and asked for it takes Chas by surprise. The pain is so bright and clarifying that it doesn’t register as pain. The needles and blood rise in his cheek split second later and Stanley slices back across the other side of his face with an open palm and loose fingers, less forceful, but it still stings.

The second round of smacks is harder, the backhand snaps Chas’ neck to the side and he almost topples over. He catches himself on a weak arm and is practically shaking as he rights himself. His eyes are burning and when he blinks he feels a tear well in the corner and track down over his cheekbone. Stanley hits him again and his ears are ringing. Chas’ hand sits unmoving on his cock, the ache and need there has faded beneath the sensations in his face. Stanley delivers another volley of blows and then drops his arms. He’s panting and Chas can see the sheen of sweat on his brow as he rubs one hand over the other, soothing the one that was doing most of the work. Chas can feel his cheeks reddening, his skin swelling tighter, and his tears are streaming now. It does nothing to dull the appetite in Stanley’s eyes as he looms over him. He’s standing so close Chas can smell the sex and heat still clinging to his trousers. _Fuck._

Chas gets a hand down the front of his trousers, still lying open in his lap, and groans at the relief. Stanley’s hand is back on his face, cupping his jaw and stroking his cheek, and Chas rubs back against it this time. God, he’s beaten tender, and just the lightest pressure feels like pushing on bruises. Stanley’s thumb drags across his mouth to the hinge of his jaw, his hand tightens around his neck, his fingers dig into the artery and Chas picks up the pace on his cock. He closes his eyes and sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, bites down until it hurts then looks up at Stanley again.

“Let me see you,” Stanley says.

“Fuck,” he gasps, and leans back, sticking his chest out.

 _Stanley likes to watch_ and he can’t hold this for long, with Stanley's eyes raking over him, propped up on one trembling arm, and his hips jerking unevenly into his fist. He’s ready to collapse when Stanley hauls him to his feet and is backing him up so quickly Chas almost trips over his loose trousers. They go flying right past the bed and Chas doesn’t know what’s happening until his back hits up against the door frame.

The breath is knocked out of him for a moment, and Stanley’s teeth are at the soft join of his neck and shoulder. Chas groans out loud and through the open door he can hear noises from the other rooms, spilling through the hallway from just feet away. If he turned his head he could see the people in the lounge. They could see him. He doesn’t turn. He gasps and clings to Stanley’s shirt and kisses him open mouthed and dirty, moaning into him. Stanley growls and kisses back harder, using his height to make Chas crane his neck back. Stanley’s fingers scratch up the line of his jugular and push into his mouth and Chas is drowning in him.

Chas writhes and whines and chokes and his teeth dig into the soft flesh of Stanley’s fingers as they drag down along his tongue until he’s holding Chas’ lower jaw like a vice.

“Desperate little boy,” Stanley rasps, leaning into Chas’ ear. “They’re going to hear you come for me.”

Chas feels his balls tighten, an ache in the pit of his stomach that adds to the rest of his pain, and he lets out a sob.

“Please, fuck,” he pants, his words muffled by Stanley’s fingers and his ragged breath and his fucked throat.

Stanley kicks at his foot and Chas staggers his legs wider. His knees are bent and trembling, barely holding him up, and about to give out. Stanley pushes his leg between Chas’ thighs and tightens an arm around his waist. Fuck, he’s strong. He’s taking almost all of Chas’ weight and Chas moans around the fingers in his mouth. He’s wedged in there, between the door frame and Stanley's body pressed close, half jerking himself off and half grinding against Stanley’s leg. His toes are barely touching the floor, he can’t get purchase and it’s driving him mad how much it’s not enough, how he would do anything to get more, how much he would beg to get Stanley inside him, would say anything if Stanley would only let go of his tongue. _Desperate little boy._ Chas closes his eyes and rolls his head back against the door frame. His legs are shaking. Stanley’s fingers drag out of his mouth and his hand is back in Chas’ hair, his breath roaring like a hot furnace by his ear.

“Come for me, Charles. Come now.”

At the sound of his name purring out of Stanley’s mouth, Chas grabs a fistful of Stanley’s shirt and his orgasm hits hard and shuddering.

“Ohhh, fuck. _Fuck_ me,” Chas cries out the rest in the wordless sound as he spills over his hand and up his belly.

Stanley stays there with him, holding him up against the door frame, his chin resting on the top of Chas’ head.

“Good. That’s good,” he says when Chas has his breath back. He eases his leg away, lowering Chas gently to the floor.

Chas grins stupidly and sloppily and tips forward into Stanley’s chest and bites at his shirt.

“Can you stand?”

Chas nods.

Stanley steps back and Chas falters a moment, grabbing at Stanley again before holding himself up and pushing away from the door. His trousers are tangled about his shins and he staggers sideways to pull them back up.

“Just there,” Stanley says, gesturing with his head to somewhere over Chas’ shoulder as he closes the door.

Chas turns. There’s a washstand in the corner he hadn’t noticed before. He goes over and turns the tap with his clean hand, and waits for the water to run warm. There’s no mirror but he feels Stanley behind him, close and solid, the tickle of shirt cotton against his back.

“Thank you,” Chas says, swaying back on his heels and leaning his shoulders against Stanley's chest. “That was hot as fuck.”

He hears Stanley tut under his breath.

There are some small square flannels and bars of soap by the washstand and Chas once again marvels at this place. There isn’t anywhere he frequents that lays on something like this, and even if they did he wouldn’t trust the freshness of the laundry. He soaks a cloth and wipes himself down in warm soft strokes. He lathers up his hands with soap and rinses and wrings out the cloth. Stanley clears his throat behind him and his long arm snakes into view, a few spots of come drying on his fingers. Chas chuckles and takes one finger into his mouth and sucks it clean, smiling when Stanley presses closer against his back and his other arm wraps around Chas’ chest. Chas holds Stanley by the wrist and soaks the flannel again, soaping up and washing Stanley’s hands and drying them with a fresh cloth.

As he finishes up and turns around Stanley catches his face in his hands and kisses him. It’s like the first time again, achingly soft. Chas hums and laughs when he’s let go.

“I don’t need _that_ much looking after,” he says.

Stanley nods. “Noted.”

Stanley moves out of his way but doesn’t help as he collects his shirt from its crumpled heap on the floor, and his jacket from falling half off the edge of the bed. He dresses with Stanley’s eyes silently on him. There’s a small stain of white on the front of Stanley’s trousers and either he hasn’t noticed or he doesn’t care. Chas says nothing, and after he’s done the top button of his shirt he holds his hands up in a frame around his face.

“How do I look?” he asks with a smirk.

Stanley grunts. “Like someone gave you exactly what was coming to you.”

Chas beams and shrugs on his jacket and follows Stanley back through the building. In the basement lounge a few more eyes than watched them arrive watch them leave. The drawing room is busier than before and their previous table is now occupied.

“Would you like another drink?” Stanley asks without slowing down as they walk through the room.

Chas thinks for a moment about sitting in this club with Stanley watching his pink-slapped face turning to bruises and almost falls into a dead faint.

“I think I need some food.”

“Of course,” Stanley glances back over his shoulder, and Chas detects a hint of satisfaction there. 

Stanley pauses only to sign out, and Chas leans against his shoulder and gives a wide saccharine smile to the desk clerk as Stanley fills out ‘Room 2’ in the column marked ‘additional notes’.

Outside the air is cool and damp with rain that has only recently stopped.

“They don’t do food here,” Stanley says, heading down the steps.

Outside the courtyard there’s a car waiting with the engine running. Stanley walks up and turns with his hand on the back door.

“Can I drop you somewhere?”

“I’m fine, I’ll get a cab.”

“Right,” Stanley opens the car door.

“Stanley.”

“Yes?” he turns impatiently with one ridiculously long leg already folded inside.

Chas smiles and slinks over. “If I’m not to contact you at work, _or home,_ how do I get a hold of you?”

Stanley sighs and bends down into the car. He re-emerges with a phone and taps at it with his thumbs. There’s a pause and then he slips the phone into his pocket.

“You can reach me at that number. If I want you,” he adds with a scornful glance.

“Very gracious,” Chas says. He tugs at Stanley by a belt loop and looks up at him through his eyelashes. Stanley gives a withering glower but nonetheless leans down to peck a short dry kiss to his lips.

“Goodnight, Stanley.”

Stanley doesn’t reply but ducks into the car and pulls the door closed. The car, low and boxy and silver, moves off with a purr of the engine. Chas watches the red lights roll around a corner, turns his collar up against the cold, and heads to the tube station.

**Author's Note:**

> the vaults exists in edinburgh and is home to a very nice whisky club. to my knowledge there is not a sex basement.


End file.
